


Separate the Body from the Mind

by unrealityshift



Series: Swing on the Spiral [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Sitting, Hair-pulling, M/M, Makeshift Gags, Mentions of Dermatillomania, Mentions of Trichotillomania, Riding, Safe Sane and Consensual, Squirting, Tent Sex, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, implied ot4 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15686184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrealityshift/pseuds/unrealityshift
Summary: After a restless night of anxiety and overthinking, Ignis helps Prompto quiet his thoughts before bed. Too bad Prompto's got to help keep Ignis quiet, too.





	Separate the Body from the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> UHHHH so i guess i managed to get that super porny sequel out faster than i anticipated. this is a follow-up to my previous fic (in what i guess is tentatively a series now that i may or may not update in the future) titled "Overthinking, Overanalyzing". you don't necessarily need to read it to get this fic, but if you didn't, prompto is trans, deals with trichotillomania/dermatillomania, and has anxiety which also makes it difficult for him to sleep. if you read the first fic, thank you so much for your support and for the response to it because, WOW it was taken way better than i could've ever expected.
> 
> also if you can guess the tool song that i got the title for both of these fics from (and the series name now, i guess) without looking it up by the lyrics, please come to my house and slap me in the face for being like this. enjoy, and please share your thoughts!

It’s quiet when they enter the tent. Well, as quiet as things can be with Gladio’s sound barrier-breaking snores. Honestly, they’re not that bad. Prompto’s just a sucker for exaggerating and blowing things out of proportion for comedic effect. Loud, yes. Loud enough to disturb one’s sleep, oh  _ hell _ yes. Fortunately, everyone seems to have gotten used to the noises Gladio makes in his sleep and learned how to optimally work with it to get a night of undisturbed rest.

Gladio’s snoring also acts as the perfect cover for illicit late-night activities.

Prompto and Ignis all but tumble inside the cover of canvas, the inside pitch-dark even in the light of the full moon. The fabric of the tent is thick and unobtrusive—a blessing during cloudless mornings, but a curse during midnight romps. Thankfully, Gladio and Noctis have stayed firmly on their side of the tent. The Shield has shifted in his sleep a little. He’s more firmly on his back, sprawled out neatly with a thick arm holding their prince tightly against his side. If Prompto strains his eyes in the dark, he can make out a flash of tanned skin from beneath the ridden-up hem of his shirt. Tantalizing, but not enough to distract him from the advisor’s busy hands slipping beneath Prompto’s sleepshirt  _ (stolen from Ignis, stolen from Ignis, _ his mind chants dreamily) as he’s pulled down on top of their sleeping bags on the right side of the tent.

Ignis somehow manages to pull the bags closer together with one hand as he lowers himself down—Prompto partially on top of him, other hand busy smoothing its palm over Prompto’s lightly blemished back. He’s so talented. Prompto chuckles into the kiss, feeling the advisor’s lips quirk against his own.

“Care to share with the class?” Ignis murmurs teasingly against Prompto’s bitten lips, now flush and slightly swollen for entirely different reasons.

“Just thinking about how good you are at multitasking, Igster.” Prompto manages in between kisses, trying to remember how to keep a good inside voice. Noctis always did say he sucked at whispering and well, he’s not wrong. Prompto’s whisper is barely a notch or two below his normal speaking voice. He can’t really be blamed though, he thinks. His ADHD already makes processing things people say to him difficult simply from a word standpoint, and then he just had to be insanely good with guns, of all weapons. How was he supposed to know that continuous use of firearms—even in a wide, open space—could damage his hearing in any capacity? 

It’s not so bad. He can still keep up with Ignis’s filthy babbling in bed, so that’s gotta count for something. Just takes him a second for things to sink in.

A nip to his neck brings him back to the making out in the present. Ignis arches a finely-plucked brow at him. “I thought you said we needed to be quiet. I’m sure Noct can hear you thinking from the other side of the tent.” He whispers, smirking lips shifting to press the words into the space where his earlobe meets his jaw. Prompto shudders at the vibration, feels the heat pool between his legs even more. Ignis’s other hand has long since finished adjusting the sleeping bags beneath them and rests tantalizingly low on his back, right at the upper curve of his ass. Prompto resists the urge to arch into the touch, but feels the wetness soak his underwear further. At this rate, he’s going to ruin his pajama pants as well.

“Well,” Prompto turns his head and messily catches the corner of Ignis’s lips in a lopsided kiss, “what are you gonna do about that?” He settles himself more firmly in his lover’s lap, feeling the telltale hardness of Ignis’s burgeoning erection against the cleft of his clothed ass. He’s feeling a little cheeky, a little bold, a little shaky from the vestiges of his earlier anxiety. The hand beneath his shirt continues to smooth over his back, warm fingertips tripping over newly-crusted blood from his picking and Ignis’s brow furrows slightly.

_ It’s fine, it’s normal, I just bleed sometimes, it happens.  _ Prompto goes to say at the shift in Ignis’s expression before he remembers that he doesn’t need to justify his picking to Ignis—who is also a serial picker and understands that while Prompto is working hard to break the habit, some impulses are purely reflexive at this point. Sometimes, Prompto doesn’t even realize what he’s engaging in with his own body until someone points it out to him. 

As quickly as Ignis’s brow furrows, the crease is gone.  _ A conversation for another day, _ Prompto remembers. Right now isn’t about what he can and should do, but what he wants and needs to do. And right now, what he  _ wants _ more than anything is to shove his leaking cunt against Ignis’s face and have him eat his soul right out of him. Wasn’t there some sort of old, weird tale about that with some lesser god? Prompto can’t remember. Hard to think of anything when Ignis is back in his groove, pulling Prompto tighter to him and slithering the hand on his back to his front to pinch at a nipple. Prompto jolts at that, mashing his lips clumsily into the advisor’s to muffle his own gasp.

Prompto’s chest has always been sensitive, his nipples in particular. His breast tissue has always been a little firmer, making him feel a little self-conscious and uncomfortable about his small, perky breasts being touched (because he’s had previous experiences when they were too tender, and his partners too eager, and he’s always a little wary of a repeat because he’s only just now learning exactly what his body likes and needs). Still, the gunner can’t say that he dislikes the fact that Ignis’s large hands completely dwarf them, encasing his right breast in heat as Ignis pinches the nipple between his fore- and middle finger. The air is punched out of Prompto’s lungs and he compensates for it by shoving his tongue in his lover’s mouth.

Ignis plays with him like that for a little—pinching and tugging on the hardening nub while Prompto squirms in his lap—before pulling back enough to be able to speak without the gunner swallowing his words. “Well,” Ignis starts, “I was thinking that perhaps you could muzzle me with that pretty cunt of yours,” Prompto bites back a rare whimper, “and that I could lick those thoughts clean out of you.” Ignis drags his lips across Prompto’s freckled cheek, “A two-for-one, if you would”

“I shut you up, you shut me up?” Prompto manages breathlessly, his own hands finally remembering how to work as he smooths them up Ignis’s broad shoulders, down over his protruding clavicle and defined, pillowy pectorals through his (also stolen) shirt. “Sounds fair.” Again, Prompto can feel Ignis’s smirk against him. It’s an invitation if Ignis ever needed one, the hand on Prompto’s ass slipping beneath the waistband of his pajama pants and underwear to grope at the soft flesh. The gunner exhales shudderingly near his ear.

“I suppose we’ll need to get these out of the way, then.” Ignis whispers as an afterthought, the hand previously playing with Prompto’s nipple sliding down his front—past his quivering stomach, past the lightning bolt-stretch marks streaked across his abdomen and hips—down to the sparse hair leading down to the patchy pubic hair of his groin. It’s another thing he used to be self-conscious about, ashamed of really, but it’s hard to be ashamed of the damage he’s done to his own body when Ignis would gladly and continuously press himself (his mouth, his hands, his  _ cock) _ into the messy thatch of hair between his legs without so much as a  _ simply gorgeous. _ Prompto’s breath shakes out of him, face burrowing into Ignis’s neck as he lifts his hips. With the hand groping at his ass—and the other hand tantalizingly stroking over the wiry hair spattered across his crotch—Ignis pulls down Prompto’s pants and underwear with ease. It’s kind of hot, how smooth he makes it look. Feel. Prompto can’t really see shit in this lighting, even though his eyes have adjusted. It’s not like he’s looking down anyway. He can’t, really, with his face jammed into the side of his lover’s neck. Even if he were to pull back, he wouldn’t be able to make out Ignis’s face without focusing for more than a moment or two. Maybe squinting. Who knows, really.

Prompto gasps, actually full on gasps, as Ignis drags a finger through the slick mess between his legs without warning. In all fairness, Prompto let his mind wander. Again. Completely warranted, really. “Sh-shit.” He spits out, feebly kicking his legs to assist in the removal of his clothing; all that remains is the stolen undershirt and the terry cloth wristband he insists on sleeping in. Ignis knows of his thing for partially clothed sex, and also probably finds the knowledge of Prompto wearing his clothing unreasonably hot, so they don’t bother with the shirt. He already knows the wristband is some sort of no-man’s-land. He’s never even mentioned it after boundaries were set at the beginning of their relationship. Prompto’s heart flutters at the recollection.

“Is all of this for me?” Prompto peeks up at Ignis’s stupid, smug face. His eyes are glittering with mirth, pupils already beginning to blow out in arousal. Prompto feels himself leak a little. Fuck. Shit. He can make out Ignis’s eyes crinkling more. Goddammit. Prompto can feel a snappy retort on his tongue before it peters out into a deep exhalation as Ignis drags all four of the fingers of his right hand between his legs. Blood rushes to Prompto’s face as those fingers squeeze his folds while they make their way to his clit. His teeth dig into his lower lip before he realizes that  _ wait, _ he’s got better things he can do with that, and nips along Ignis’s jaw. He can feel the beginnings of stubble there. Neat. Hot? Yeah. Both.

“Y-you think that’s bad,” Prompto can feel how the wetness has collected along his inner thighs and is clinging to the sparse, thin hair there. Wow, okay then, “felt like my underwear was a second skin, like, this isn’t even half of i—mmm…” He’s rendered speechless yet again as Ignis rubs the pad of his forefinger against his clit. Wow, no fair, that’s cheating.

Prompto’s grateful for the low light, how they can barely see each other in the tent because if his face was flushed before,  _ wow _ is it ever red now. He’s had rosacea for as long as he can remember, leaving a natural, almost feverish flush to his cheeks and neck and chest and shoulders, so when he blushes, he’s like a beacon of molten hot embarrassment. His flushes have always been so pronounced because, well, on a normal day he gets at least one or two questions or comments from strangers about having a sunburn (which, yeah, sure, he does burn easier than the others, he’s certainly got the pallor for it)—

He’s pulled out of his meandering thoughts  _ (again) _ when Ignis delivers a light smack on his ass with his free hand. Prompto huffs out a breath, remembering exactly why his thoughts wandered off into the flush of his skin when he can  _ feel  _ himself dripping slick onto Ignis’s clothed cock. Ugh, that’s gonna leave a stain, and  _ ugh, _ why does his body have to be so  _ honest  _ about his feelings? Prompto’s easily aroused enough as is, hair-trigger sensitive, often wondering if he needs to change his underwear by noon on his especially horny days when he can feel his own wetness drenching through the cotton of his underwear. This evening (morning?) is no exception as Ignis’s fingers break the string of slick before bringing it to his own tongue.

“If you’re so eager to make a mess, darling, why don’t you do it where it can be easily cleaned?” His tongue laves tantalizingly along the length of those pianist fingers of his, eyes practically black with desire at this point. Prompto can felt his large cock twitch where their bodies are pressed. Wow. That’s a hell of a compliment. Prompto rolls Ignis’s words around in his head for a moment, letting them sink in and  _ shit, _ what a smooth operator Iggy can be. Prompto wishes he could be that good with words, that smooth, but well, when it comes to talking, his body sure as hell is better at it.

In a small burst of confidence, Prompto tugs Ignis’s hand away from his plush lips, shimmying up his lover’s still fully clothed body (wow, hey,  _ again. _ No fair.) to plant his knees on either side of his head. His weeping cunt is just out of reach, and the gunner can somehow feel more blood (why does he have so much  _ blood _ , Ifrit’s dick) rushing to his face at sight of his slick dripping against Ignis’s chin and jaw. Why did he pick  _ now _ of all times to focus on what he was looking at? His legs are trembling in excitement. 

Nervously, Prompto smooths his hands through Ignis’s unstyled hair, pulling ashy brown bangs out of his vision and exposing the rest of his face to the gunner’s scrutiny. Everything about him is so pretty, from the moles decorating his classically handsome face down to the full lips and eager tongue waiting patiently beneath him. It’s a face Prompto will never get tired of sitting on. And well, also a face that it’s kind of a shame to sit on, because the gunner would love nothing more than a constant, unobstructed view of it at all times. Still, he can’t complain too much, he thinks, as he slowly lowers himself down. He’s allowing Ignis an out, a moment to catch his breath or prepare himself, or whatever, before he really gets to rocking Prompto’s world. Prompto can feel Ignis’s hot breath puffing against his cunt, mouth parting further. Okay, so, all systems go, then.

Curling his fingers in Ignis’s hair, Prompto lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding as he presses the wet mess between his legs against his lover’s lips and chin. He can’t take his eyes off of Ignis. He can’t even blink. He kind of just gapes at him as he settles in, and time seems to freeze.

Another shaky breath and,

The world careens forward at the first pass of Ignis’s tongue—from Prompto’s leaking opening all the way up to his clit. His labia is pressed sloppily against Ignis’s chin and jaw—he used to be self-conscious about how things, well, hung out more than usual, but as Ignis sucks one of his outer lips between his teeth, Prompto can’t find it in himself to really care anymore. Ignis is so keen, so eager about his body, and the gunner can tell this as Ignis’s hands rush up to grab at the backs of his thighs and hold on for dear life. Prompto cinches his hands tighter in Ignis’s hair and huffs at the moan that vibrates through his core. Shit. Even with his face buried tightly between Prompto’s thighs, Ignis is still loud. Briefly, Prompto spares a glance to the other side of the tent. Yup, nothing’s changed. Iggy really  _ was _ right, the gods really  _ could _ come down from chilling in the astral plane or plane of the Gods or wherever they’re sleeping or hanging out and those two would sleep through the whole damn thing. Does that count as a win? Prompto thinks it does, as Ignis applies a particularly hard suck against the meat of his clit. The gunner’s thoughts scatter.

His scattered thoughts fracture when Ignis pulls him tighter to his face, tongue tracing patterns and shapes along his inner lips and entrance. Occasionally, he nips at Prompto’s folds only to soothe them with a gentle suck. He keeps this up until Prompto is shaking near violently above him, thighs clamped tight against his skull. If one wasn’t acquaintanced to Prompto’s tells, it would a little tricky to tell if he was really enjoying himself. Ignis spares him a heated glance, taking in the vision perched above him. The gunner is shaking out of his skin, yes, harsh exhales passing through his nose, eyes squeezed shut. His lips alternate from being worried between his teeth to folding over in a pout. His calves squirm feebly. It’s endearing. Ignis finds himself smiling into Prompto’s pussy, which earns him a peek of Prompto’s lavender eyes beneath slitted lids. The gunner opens his mouth to say something before it’s cut off in a surprisingly harsh gasp as Ignis prods at his opening with his tongue. Ignis loses sight of the work of art above him as his eyes slip closed to focus on his work.

Prompto can’t string a coherent thought together. Sure, a lot of his thoughts are usually wild and incoherent, but now he  _ really  _ can’t get anything together. All of his brain power is pooling southward, converting into the desire to grind his groin into Ignis’s chin and mindless mantra of  _ more, _ and  _ gods, suck me, suck me suck me, please, _ and  _ i want to come all over your face so you smell like my cunt for a week _ because boy, is that a smell that’s hard to get rid of. Prompto’s movements get a little frantic as he starts to chase the beginning of his orgasm. Probably the first one of a good few for the night, because apparently his body has also never heard of a refractory period either. Ignis seems to sense this, because not only does he start alternating between fucking Prompto shallowly with his tongue and sucking at his opening and clit, but he latches even tighter onto the muscle of Prompto’s thighs (soft from the last of the weight he could never seem to shake off, but tight from all the years of running he’s got under his belt). Prompto pants at the thought of having the imprint of Ignis’s beautiful fingers on his freckled skin for the next few days. It’s when Ignis redoubles his efforts—burying his face as deeply between Prompto’s legs as he physically can—that Prompto can feel roller coaster whoosh of his orgasm rushing through his abdomen and core. Just a little more, just a little  _ more more moremoremore more _ —

“Mmmmnnn _ nmm _ —” Prompto keens softly in the back of his throat as he really smothers Ignis, grinding his mound against the advisor’s lips and chin as the slick mess between his legs becomes even slicker, riding out his orgasm in jerky shivers. His fingers pull and tug weakly at Ignis’s hair, his curled legs kick weakly, and a little bit of drool slips past his lip to drip embarrassingly against his lover’s exposed forehead. Whoops. Prompto blearily licks his lips, settling down on his haunches as he starts to come down from his high. He feels weightless. He feels like jelly. Is this what being a flan feels like? Prompto’s become a flan. Bring out the spinny blue swords, time to put the poor guy down.

Except he’s not a flan, not really, he realizes as Ignis lifts him from his face and awareness gradually drifts back to him. Ignis was right, he thinks as he glances down at the advisor’s face. He did make a mess. A hell of a mess. Most of it is probably his own slick, mixed with Ignis’s spit because when the guy says he’s going to eat you out,  _ he eats you the fuck out. _ Ignis isn’t a man that does things in halves. He’s an all-or-nothing kind of guy, which Prompto totally admires and respects the hell out of him for. He doesn’t care how sloppy he gets or how much clean-up he’s going to have to worry about. Ignis is nothing if a dedicated, thorough lover.

Which is why Prompto isn’t surprised when Ignis pats his thigh and Prompto knows exactly what he’s asking for. Nodding weakly, Prompto pushes himself up on still-trembling thighs and practically tumbles to Ignis’s left side, laying down in a sweaty heap next to his lover as he continues to catch his breath. Ignis is quick to turn onto his side and face Prompto, pulling in gulps of air, verdant eyes piercing through Prompto in the darkness of the tent. Prompto can barely hear their gasping breaths over the sound of his own pulse hammering in his ears. Also Gladio’s snoring but that’s beside the point, he’d completely forgotten about it until now. He almost snorts until he doesn’t, breath hitching as Ignis’s fingers (still a little damp with saliva from when he licked Prompto’s wetness off of them,  _ gods)  _ drag down the front of his now sweat-dampened shirt. Prompto feels an apology welling up on the back of his tongue for dirtying Ignis’s clothes before he spots the wet patch at the crotch of Ignis’s own pajama pants. So, moot point.

“Was that—”

“Yes, gods yes.”

“Do you want—”

Before Ignis can finish his question, Prompto snatches his wandering hand by the wrist and jams it between his own legs, a huff slipping past his lips as one of Ignis’s fingers slips into his body with ease. There’s like, zero traction, zero friction—if his body was keen enough, he could probably shove four of Ignis’s fingers into his pussy right now, no problem. Except he doesn’t want to rush himself, as eager as he is, as much as his horny lizard brain is screaming for him to just cram something in there already. He knows that his patience will pay off in spades while his eagerness with just end in soreness for the rest of the night and a lost erection on his partner’s part so, play it cool, Argentum. Well, as cool as he can play it while fucking himself on Ignis’s hand. Finger. Whatever. It’s totally gonna be his hand soon enough.

“Iggy, I’m gonna be straight with you here,” That earns him a wry smirk, “shut up,” He swats at the advisor with his free hand, “anyway, before you decide to be a smartass that’s so good with puns or wordplay or whatever, I’ve been thinking about sitting on your dick since like, yesterday, so uh.” Prompto loses his verbal momentum and a bit of his train of thought. “I don’t know a hot way to finish that.”

“Shall I open you up and, as they say, get this show on the road?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever, that, but remember we gotta be—hnggg—” Ignis slides another finger in alongside the first one and presses up against the front of Prompto’s walls, rubbing at the spongy texture with the pads of his fingers.

“What was that?”

“Iggy, I’m gonna need you to shut up or I’m gonna—uhhh—” Ignis pumps the two fingers he has buried in Prompto’s sopping cunt in and out roughly for a few good thrusts.

“You were saying?”

_ “Iggy.”  _ Ignis lets up, at least verbally. He coyly pulls his lips into his mouth, smiling with his eyes, the absolute  _ bastard.  _ His long fingers continue their relentless, maddening strokes inside of Prompto and thank the gods for his nonexistent refractory period or he’d have long since rocketed into overstimulation. Ignis wiggles the arm that’s wrenched beneath his own body out to slip beneath the hem of Prompto’s shirt again and tug at his nipples.  _ Gods, _ that’ll never stop feeling fucking incredible. Prompto’s mindlessly wiggling his hips back and forth, the sleeping bag beneath him sifting and sticking to his sweaty skin. It would bother him more if he wasn’t so intensely focused on Ignis’s fingers pressing into him deeply, into soft, sensitive spots that he can’t reach himself when he masturbates without his toys. From Prompto’s spot on his back, Ignis can’t really reach his left nipple all to well and, well, that’s not good, so Prompto opts to roll onto his side to face Ignis and give him something much easier to work with.

Which, in turn, shoves Ignis’s fingers deeper. Prompto clamps his legs around Ignis’s wrist so tightly he’s worried he probably shifted some bones around. Oops. Ignis’s expression remains unchanged so it’s probably not an issue, or as bad as Prompto thought it would be. He tries to apologize (again) only to be thwarted  _ (again)  _ by Ignis adjusting to the new angle and pumping his fingers into Prompto more eagerly. Prompto still doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands—he never does—so he opts to fold the arm beneath him under his head to rest on and releases the grip he never adjusted on Ignis’s forearm to move his own hand to rest just below his belly button. His fingers itch to rub one out. Gods, it’s so hard not to, what with Ignis’s two—ooh, make that three—fingers pistoning relentlessly inside him.

“Go on,” Ignis murmurs, because he can totally read Prompto’s body language and without a moment of hesitation Prompto’s hand flies between his legs. His middle and ring finger rub eagerly at his clit, hips driving down to meet Ignis’s thrusts. Astrals, they’re not even to the main course and he’s ready to rip another orgasm out of himself. Ignis hasn’t even come once. Prompto briefly thinks that he has the patience of a saint before he remembers that Ignis is big on dragging out his own pleasure for as long as possible. He’s getting off on this as much as Prompto is, if the growing wet spot in Ignis’s pants is any indication. Guy’s been leaking precome since they entered the tent. Probably earlier, who knows.

Prompto almost shouts—like, honest to Ramuh almost  _ shouts _ —when Ignis spreads his fingers out. It burns a little, but it’s not unbearable. For once, Prompto is grateful that sometimes he gets so obscenely wet that they don’t need lubrication. At least for fingering. On his particularly horny days. Iggy’s way too big to risk not using at least a little when they get down to it. Either way, lube isn’t a concern at the moment, not when Prompto’s still leaking so much and gods, that’s gonna be a wet patch on the sleeping bags too, fuck. Ignis doesn’t seem to care, which is maddeningly hot. His eyes are firmly on Prompto, drifting from his blotchy, flushed face, down his heaving chest—gaze lingering on his taut, perky nipples through the thin fabric of his stolen shirt—to his quivering, slick thighs. His gaze feels especially heavy there, zeroed in on his own fingers plunging into Prompto’s pliant body. Licking his lips, Prompto lifts his leg a little, digging his fingers into his clit to give Ignis a nice view of the mess the advisor has made him into. He earns himself a low groan in response. Prompto swears he sees Ignis’s cock twitch in his thin sleeping pants. His cunt pulses.

Spurred on by the reactions he’s pulling from Prompto’s body, Ignis shoots him a wary glance as he presses his little finger against the gunner’s stretched opening. As if he’s asking for permission, asking if Prompto’s up for that. Prompto manages a few bobs of his head in response. Just like that, Ignis is breaching him with four fingers, and Prompto sucks in air through his teeth. It doesn’t hurt, it’s not terribly uncomfortable, it’s just. A lot. Mentally and physically. Prompto lets out his breath, nodding a little more frantically after Ignis pauses for a moment to let him adjust. He presses into the gunner’s body fully, once, twice, slowly, coaxing him into relaxing further. Prompto’s fingers rub his clit furiously. 

It’s like a fuse is lit. One moment, full, deep thrusts. The next, Prompto is eagerly meeting them with erratic jerks of his hips, hand working at a maddening pace that he knows is probably going to result in cramps tomorrow. He can’t be assed to care. All he can think of is  _ fuck fuck fuck i’m gonna come again.  _ Prompto’s face screws up in pleasure, brows pinched, lips parted as his soft pants and gasps fill the space between them. The hand that isn’t buried in Prompto’s cunt twists a nipple. Suddenly, as if inspired, Ignis surges forward, pulling Prompto’s shirt up with a few hurried jerks to latch his mouth onto a nipple and suck hard. At the same time, the pads of his finger press into an especially good spot inside of Prompto’s cunt. The gunner’s fingers drag roughly over his own clit and suddenly he’s coming. A confused whine catches in the back of his throat as he feels his orgasm rip through his veins more intensely than usual, release gushing down Ignis’s hand and wrist and his own inner thighs in the form of a thin, slippery fluid.

_ “Iggy Iggy Iggy, fuck—” _ He chants brokenly, voice catching in a soft sob as a few tears leak out of his eyes. Holy  _ shit.  _ Titan, Ramuh, Shiva, Leviathan, Bahamut,  _ Ifrit. _ He’s never had an orgasm that intense before. He’s about ready to think something blasphemous, something sacreligious, if only he could actually think. His mind is white noise. All he can really register is the sound of his own frantic breathing as he tries to ground himself. Ignis’s fingers—most of Ignis’s hand, Ignis’s hand that he just  _ squirted all over _ —are still buried inside him. He chuckles weakly in spite of himself because he’s not sure Ignis could take them out right now even if he tried. His cunt feels like a vice, until it doesn’t and Ignis can slowly slip his fingers out. More slick spills out of Prompto’s body and he sobs again, embarrassed as his release slides down his thighs onto the sleeping bag.

Ignis is there in an instant, wet fingers curled into Prompto’s hip and peppering his face with gentle kisses. He tongues away the stray tears he finds, murmuring sweet nothings and words of encouragement and praise into the wet skin. Prompto only manages to catch snatches— _ my beautiful boy _ , and  _ you’re so incredible _ , and  _ you did so well _ , and  _ you’re so divine when you come _ , and  _ do the Astrals know they lost a piece of the heavens here on Eos.  _ Prompto kinda wants to cry a little more and he kinda does without meaning to. They’re good tears, at least. First ones kinda were too, if embarrassed. Ignis doesn’t seem weirded out or uncomfortable, in fact, he somehow looks more ravenous than he already did. Kinda reluctant too, like he doesn’t want to push the gunner to continue if he’s uncomfortable. Which, fortunately for both of them, is completely inaccurate. Prompto’s embarrassed, yeah, but Ignis is looking at him like he’s never seen anything more arousing and attractive in his entire godsdamned life. That’s a confidence booster if Prompto’s ever seen one.

“Just—a second, gimme a second.” Prompto manages finally, his voice sounding more wrecked than he expected it would. He slips the arm out from beneath his head and sits up a little, bracing himself on that hand as he pulls in a few deep breaths. Whew. Better. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his free hand, reaching down to palm at Ignis’s chest through his shirt.

“Prompto, darling, are you sure—”

“Ignis,  _ yes, _ I am absolutely one-hundred percent sure that I wanna keep going, I’m fine, I just—that—it caught me off-guard, I’m—embarrassed, but—”

Ignis presses Prompto’s palm more firmly into his clothed chest. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, I’ve never seen such a breathtaking sight.” Prompto’s jaw almost clicks as he shuts his mouth. “It seems that I’ve forgotten about your tendency to get a little, ah, how do you put it,  _ weepy _ during sex.” Prompto squeezes a pectoral in retaliation.

“Shut up, man.” His lips are pulled into a crooked grin; the retort loses its bite. Ignis opens his mouth to respond—probably with something stupidly snarky or snappy—and Prompto lurches to the bottom of their sleeping bags to pull his abandoned underwear out of its place tangled in his pajama pants. Quick as a shot, he presses it into Ignis’s open mouth. “Dude, I said shut up.” His grin falters at Ignis’s perplexed look, only to twitch back into place as Ignis groans around the cotton. “Better.” Prompto’s voice is as hushed as it’s going to get. He spares another glance at the far side of the tent. Gladio’s snoring isn’t nearly as loud, but he’s still dead asleep. Noctis is still curled tightly into his side, unmoving, ever a heat-seeking missile. Wow. Prompto’s honestly impressed at this point.

He turns his attention back to the advisor, nudging his shoulder so Ignis rolls onto his back. “Okay, so, I’m gonna make this quick because, y’know.” He presses a finger to his lips. “You did all the work so far. Let me take care of you.” He grabs Ignis’s right hand, belatedly forgetting how messy it still is. God, that’s gonna get flaky and gross if he doesn’t wipe it down soon. Quickly, Prompto reaches into the grocery bag of supplies Ignis keeps nearby and pulls out a wet wipe to clean his fingers with. There.

Discarding the used wipe into a different bag used for trash, Prompto crawls over Ignis, his half-naked body hovering above him. He places Ignis’s larger hand against his thigh. “If we need it, one tap for continue, two taps for stop, yeah?” A beat, and then Ignis is nodding. Prompto’s grin widens. “Neat. O-kay, shutting up now.” And with that, Prompto leans down and showers Ignis’s neck in kisses and nips, pausing every now and then to suck deep marks into his neck that definitely won’t fade by tomorrow and will also be visible above his shirt collar. Because what’s propriety in the wilderness when everyone thinks you’re dead anyway? If Ignis’s noises are anything to go by (which they totally are), he’s enjoying himself. Prompto continues down to his clavicle until the low collar of Ignis’s shirt (Gladio’s shirt) gets in the way. With a bit of manhandling, Prompto manages to tug it off of Ignis’s frame and immediately reaches down to press Ignis’s pectorals together. Gods, he’s got nice tits. He, nonverbally, says as much by stooping forward to press open-mouthed kisses into the firmly muscled, yet somehow still pillowy flesh before him. Ignis moans out his appreciation, blessedly muffled by the cotton stuffed between his teeth. Prompto shudders at the knowledge that the advisor’s groaning around his soaked underwear. Fuck, why didn’t they try that sooner?

Prompto lingers around Ignis’s chest for a little—biting into the soft skin, rolling his nipples between his tongue, sucking even more marks into his beauty-marked flesh. Prompto was always weak for Ignis’s own freckles and moles. Kinda made him understand the appeal of his own, in a way. Ignis made everything look good, though, even if it was traditionally considered a flaw or unattractive. Slowly, Prompto makes his way down Ignis’s heaving abdomen, all the way to the waistband of his sleep pants. Judging by how damp the crotch is and the way they’re settling across his hips, Ignis decided to forgo underwear that night. Nice. They were due for a load or two of laundry anyway (moreso after tonight, haha, whoops). Peeking up at Ignis through long, pale lashes, Prompto slowly tugs Ignis’s pants down his hips. The advisor’s large cock springs up and lightly smacks against his cheek. Ignis groans. Prompto lets out an amused huff. With Ignis’s helpful shifting and eager tugs of Prompto’s hands, the advisor’s pajamas are pulled down to about halfway down his thighs before Prompto calls that a job well done. He doesn’t need them all the way off, anyway.

Prompto almost lets out a low whistle at how flushed Ignis’s cock is, at how much precome has slicked up the shaft. It’s pretty impressive. It’s pretty excessive. It’s extremely hot. Wrapping a hand around the base, Prompto gives his cock a long lick from root to tip and prods at the leaking slit. Ignis keens. Giving him a few full strokes—and a couple of greedy sucks to the head, for good measure—Prompto relents and sits back on his haunches. He gets it. Ignis probably wouldn’t be able to handle teasing for much longer. He’s held off for this long; Prompto sets that idea aside for another time. The gunner reaches into the same bag he pulled the wet wipes out of and extracts a bottle of lube and condom. Ignis groans at the sight.

Now, Prompto’s sterile. He knows he’s sterile. He knows there’s something really fucked up with him—what  _ that _ is though, he doesn’t know (his wrist tingles, or he imagines that it does), but does know that pregnancy will never be an issue for him. And because of that, and because of the testing he and his partners made sure they did, he knows forgoing condoms wouldn’t be a problem. The thing is—the thing is, they don’t know that about Prompto, and Iggy  _ oozes  _ responsibility and rational decisions. On a completely different side of the no-condom issue, there’s no shower or good place to clean up in for miles. So even if Ignis was aware, having him come inside is—is one of the hottest things Prompto could ever imagine, but it’s just not an option right now. He tries to not mourn it too much. One of these days when they have four walls and a working shower, maybe he’ll work up the courage to bring it up but for now—condoms. Always a good option. Always a tidy option.

While he briefly lost track of his thoughts, Prompto had slicked up Ignis and rolled a condom on, slicking that up with a few good jerks of his hand. Ignis’s hips cant into his touch which is—hot. Really hot. Prompto’s invisible refractory period sings and he feels the heat pooling between his legs, where he’s still open and ready for Ignis’s cock. Prompto briefly rifles around in the trash bag for the wet wipe he already discarded—Ignis frowns at him as best as he can manage, but hey, the bag’s empty so what does he have to complain about—and once his hand is free of excess lube, Prompto fully straddles his lover. Ignis’s breath catches when Prompto grips the base of his cock with a guiding hand and—

Blessedly slides down its length, cunt adjusting to his girth, until he sinks all the way home. Prompto finds himself letting out a shuddering breath he didn’t realize he was holding, again, and Ignis’s hands are back on his thighs but this time gripping into the tops of them. The two men are completely still while Prompto’s eyes slip closed, taking a few slow breaths as he gets used to the feeling of Ignis’s dick sheathed inside him. Gods, does it feel good. Molten hot and firm, better than any of his toys, any of Gladio’s toys, anything really. Prompto never fashioned himself as someone with a thing for big dicks—and he’s still not, really into them, he’s always been more interested in what people can do with what they’ve got—but man if he isn’t into Ignis’s dick.  _ Well, Ignis’s dick is into me, _ Prompto thinks as he holds back a snort. Prompto leans back and places his hands behind himself on Ignis’s thighs for leverage, right above the bunched up band of his pants. He rolls his hips in a circular motion and Ignis’s head falls back with a muffled groan.

That’s all the encouragement Prompto needs, he thinks, as he puts his core and thighs to work bouncing on the advisor’s cock, gyrating in his lap, and wringing as much pleasure out of it for himself as he is for Ignis. Every now and then, he really works his muscles to clamp down on Ignis’s dick, keeping himself completely unpredictable. Sometimes, he moves in short, quick bursts. Other times, he drags his wet cunt up Ignis’s cock until only the head remains and slams himself down onto his lap. The sound of skin meeting skin is gradually becoming louder as Prompto opts for quicker movements, rolling his hips in Ignis’s lap.

After a little while, Ignis shifts his grip from Prompto’s thighs to his hips, taking control of the pace and bending his knees so he can fuck into Prompto’s heat better. Surprisingly, this draws a little groan out of Prompto. He can feel Ignis’s dick twitch inside him, which causes him to reflexively tighten up around the advisor. From there, Ignis’s thrusts become fuller, deeper, more powerful. Prompto’s almost worried he’ll get knocked off, if it weren’t for the firm grip Ignis has on his thighs and Prompto’s own tight hold on Ignis’s legs.

“C-c’mon.” Prompto whispers, breaking his own promise of silence. “C-come in me, I know you want to.” He huffs out, and with a groan, Ignis fucks into him frantically for a good few thrusts before stilling with a muffled shout. Prompto shivers at the feeling of Ignis’s cock pulsing through his release, and the advisor pushes into his body for a few more deep thrusts as he rides out his orgasm. The two of them still for a moment or two as Ignis catches his breath, eyes trained on the roof of the tent as he comes down from his high. Then, with piercingly clear eyes, Ignis flips their position so he’s looming over Prompto, reaching up to tug the gag of his lover’s underwear from his lips. Ignis works his jaw a few times, running his tongue over the roof his mouth to moisten it again. And, in a hushed, gravelly voice—

“I know you have one more in you, love.”

~~~

The next morning, Prompto wakes up to an empty tent which is—weird. Not even Noctis is there. Noctis, Prince of Sleeping, King of Eternal Naps. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Prompto gropes around for his discarded pajama pants (he fell asleep in nothing but Ignis’s shirt, oops) and pulls his phone out. It’s 11 AM. Suddenly he’s wide awake. Prompto jerks into a sitting position, hissing at the dull ache between his legs. Ignis, ever the polite gentleman, cleaned him up most thoroughly (okay, a bit with his mouth, pulling the weakest fourth orgasm out of him ever, and that was after rutting his half-hard cock into his cunt and pulling a third, full-body shaking orgasm out of Prompto through his clit) after their tryst the previous night, so the only evidence that remains on Prompto’s body are the finger-shaped bruises on his legs and hips and the dull ache of a good fuck deep between his legs. Gods, he’s gonna need a break from sex for like, a day. Maybe two. At least. With a groan, Prompto slips on his pants from the night before (he can’t seem to find his underwear so maybe Ignis spirited that away into the Armiger for laundry day) and stumbles out of the tent, squinting into the surprisingly clear Duscaen morning.

“Well, look who decided to finally join the realm of the living.” Gladio smirks, no heat behind the tease. Prompto lazily flips him off, staggering to a fully upright position. Noctis whistles.

“Wow, Specs did a number on you last night, huh.”

“Yeah, well—” Prompto starts before Noctis’s words hit him with the force of a catoblepas almost squishing him beneath its foot. “Uhh.” He finishes lamely. “Uhh?!” He adds on even more lamely, heat rushing to his face and oh, now in full daylight the others could really see how blotchy the flush on his face gets. Thank you, rosacea. Prompto looks frantically at Ignis, who, for some reason can’t meet his gaze. The tips of Ignis’s ears are pink.

“I’ve been keeping your breakfast warm.” Ignis says in place of an explanation.

“Iggy—!”

“Relax, Prompto, geez,” Noct rises from his camping chair in that lazy, graceful way of his and all but saunters over to his best friend’s side. He slings a companionable arm over Prompto’s shoulders. “Ignis didn’t say anything.” 

Prompto sighs in relief. 

“I heard you guys last night.”

Prompto slaps his hands over his face and screams into them. Noctis, the traitor, laughs. Off to the side, Gladio guffaws.

“Oh, come on, really?!”

Prompto’s scream tapers off into a whine.

“Weirdly enough, I think it was Prompto that woke me up.”

“What?!”

Prompto’s whine shifts into a yell.

The entire time, Ignis remains at the camp’s portable kitchen, stirring something that doesn’t need stirring, biting back laughter. Prompto feels more than hears Gladio approach, his heavy boot-clad footfalls echoing out in the surprisingly cool morning. A large hand slaps over his back.

“At least wake us up for the fun next time!”

The vestiges of Prompto’s yell morphs into a groan and he shakes his two other partners off of him with a huff. He drapes over Ignis’s taller frame as best as he can. The advisor’s shoulder’s shake with mirth.

“Aw, Iggy, c’mon!!”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading and if you want to chat with me about lgbt headcanons for the ffxv boys, or anything ffxv-related, i'm qckfirelivewire on twitter and quickfirelivewire on tumblr!!
> 
> also i finally figured out how to format shit on ao3 FUCK yes


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